#mayhem in nevada

[coastal-stargazing]

Mayhem in Nevada - Premise

This has spoilers for Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Mutant Mayhem. I recommend watching the movie prior to reading this, as this won't make that much sense to people who haven't seen the film or are unfamiliar with the franchise. If you're okay with spoilers though, I recommend waiting until I make full synopsis of the plot instead.

It's been a few months since the whole ordeal with Superfly. While the turtles have already adjusted to high school and having normal lives, the other mutants still miss Superfly despite their betrayal of him. But when, April O' Neal discovers something about TCRI, through somewhat questionable means, they [just] might need to bring him back. It turns out that Baxter Stockman has a still-living nephew and TCRI is looking for him.

After rescuing Superfly and re-mutating him using leftover ooze that was stockpiled in old his lab, the mutants agree to re-accept into their lives if he makes a public apology. “Uncle Stockman” (Superfly) accepts and begrudgingly apologizes for his partial destruction of New York City. Later that night, April O' Neal helps the mutant family with moving Superfly's belongings into the sewers. During this, she reveals that she and Leonardo found new information regarding Baxter Stockman's “extended family”, and bring him up to date on everything. Apparently, after his death, TCRI did a little digging on Baxter Stockman. It turns out that Baxter was a twin that was separated at birth, with his brother being put up for adoption. His brother then went on to get married and have a family of his own. While they had multiple children, TCRI seems to be the most interested in their eldest, Sanford. While they don't know much about Sanford Amonte, they do know that he served in the Navy at/military once and currently resides in an unknown location within Nevada, which fell into anarchy 6 years after Baxter's death. Being a red-light district, the only parts of Nevada still considered to be part of the United States, are a handful of town-sized communities and Area 51. The rest of the place is, basically, almost completely off the grid. While Nevada is easily accessible, surviving there is a challenge all in its own, thanks to it's hardened residents and the countless anomalies confined within its borders. What happens in Nevada, stays in Nevada. But sadly, most of the outside world is naive and unaware of this, including our mutant family.

So everyone decides to go on a long road trip across the country to see Superfly's human cousin. Along the way, the mutants get to see/experience life outside the city and Superfly learns to become more accepting of humans like April.

Back in Nevada, Status Quo continues their activities/duties as usual, unaware of what is about to happen. Perhaps the two parties, are more intertwined than they think. TCRI still has their eyes on the Stockman family and they will do whatever it takes to bring their project into fruition, even if it that means having extremely sketchy business partners.

---

While this is a proof-of-concept, a full, more detailed summary of the plot will be posted later on. However, this should be enough for now, I hope. As I explain more about characters and other details, more of the story should slowly come into light.

Not sure if I will end up writing the story myself, but feel free to make art and write your own stories based off of my AU, once I finish coming up with the plot. Just remember to credit me for coming up with the idea though and use the tags "Mayhem in Nevada Fanart", "Mayhem in Nevada Fanwork", and "Mayhem in Nevada Fanmade Stuff". I might end up posting about fan content if people make enough of it.

If do end up writing it, I will provide updates on a different post.

[coastal-stargazing]

I somehow came up with an idea for a crossover with Madness Combat and it's now stuck in my head. Not sure what to call it, but I might make a post about it later on. For now, I will tag everything about it under "Mayhem in Nevada" I might decide to keep this name, but as of right now, it is still subject to change.

I don't have much to share yet, though, it should noted that Superfly, after being re-mutated, gets a redemption arc in this and Sanford is somehow Baxter Stockman's nephew, and he is now wanted by TCRI for unknown reasons, possibly putting him in danger.

I usually don't end up doing anything with my ideas, but I will share my ideas for it anyway, so that people can make art and write stories based off of my AU.

When I end making a lot of posts for Mayhem in Nevada, this will become the directory/masterpost. I'm writing everything in a dcoument which will be available as a PDF when I'm done with it.

--- POSTS ---

Warning, Mutant Mayhem Spoilers. I haven’t seen the whole thing myself but I’ve seen bits and read what happens.

So am I the only one who hopes that in the future not only does Super Fly get re-mutated but also ends up realizing that trying to destroy humanity won’t make things right for his fellow mutants or with what happened to his dad and continuing with that will only end up hurting him and everyone he cares about, destroying everything that his dad really wanted, and instead helps the turtles take down the Shredder and TCRI, finally avenging his father, etheir committing a heroic sacrifice dying as a true hero for his mutant brethren or surviving and in the end get to reconcile with his family and become part of the Turtle’s as well or is that just me?

Imagine him finding a computer message from Baxter for him. Maybe found in TCRI’s computer logs or something.

Baxter- I don’t know exactly what the future holds but you Junior, along with the rest of your siblings gives me hope. Of not just having a family but change in the world! To spread the love I have in you into the rest of humanity, that someday they open their hearts to what’s different, rather than fear and want to destroy it. Whatever happens I’ll always love you son and I know you’re going to grow up to be an amazing person and continue to make me proud💖

message ends

Superfly-…I’m sorry I let you down💔

Splinter-It’s not too late to try to make things right. I know it’s not easy to admit you were wrong but if you can’t, the pain will never go away and you’ll lose everything. You still have a family you know. Dont let your pain throw that away.

SuperFly-…What do you need to me do?

[nerds-yearbook]

The last episode of the Mask cartoon aired on November 26, 1986. The series ran for 2 seasons and 75 episodes. ("Cliff Hanger", Mask, TV Event)

[eatgecom]

A cool double-sided design of the 1985 animated television series - M.A.S.K.(Mobile Armored Strike Kommand).

[savage-media]

🔴⚪️🔵 Innisfail, Alberta April 19th 🔴⚪️🔵

CanAm Wrestling Presents: THE FRIDAY NIGHT FIGHTS! 💥 💥

Don't miss out on the latest All-Ages Family Entertainment Show at the Royal Canadian Legion Innisfail Branch 104 !!

Come see the CanAm Wrestling World Tag Team Championships on the line in Our MAIN EVENT TAG TEAM LUMBERJACK MATCH !! 😱

When Challengers “Nothing but Trouble" "God of Thunder" Andy Anderson & "Mr. Beefy Goodness" Vance Nevada take on the Champions " Beast Around " "Cheetahbear" Jude Dawkins & "Best Around" Travis Cole.

🎟 🎟 TICKETS 🎟 🎟

Executive Experience $ 40.00 (Includes your seat & 2 Drinks)

VIP/ Ringside $ 30.00

Advance $ 20.00

Tickets are available online at www.canamwrestling.ca or Call CanAm at 403-369-3677 to reserve your tickets at the Door !! @topfans

#Innisfail #FridayNightFights #TablesSet #LumberjackMatch #Cheetahbear #BestAround #BeastAround #NothingButTrouble #AndyAnderson #VanceNevada #SkylerGray #AronSixx #Mayhem #Morty #BiggDaddy #MORE

[justinspoliticalcorner]

A.B. Stoddard at The Bulwark:

1. Trump’s Not Taking the L. . .

The last two weeks—the unveiling of the Harris-Walz ticket, and Kamala Harris’s surge in the polls—feels like some surreal dream state. Everything has changed. Have you noticed Harris has pushed Donald Trump right out of the comfy lead he’s held for an entire year? He’s noticed. From FiveThirtyEight to RealClearPolitics—pick your polling average—they all now show Harris out in front after only two and a half weeks.

Trump is no longer on track to win the election—which he has been for more than six straight months. Instead, the momentum, money, voter registration, volunteering, grassroots organizing, polling, and online engagement all favor the Democrats and it looks now like Trump could easily lose. But that won’t happen, because Trump doesn’t lose. He beat Joe Biden in 2020—remember? So if he’s not the rightful victor on November 5, an entire army of Republicans is ready to block certification of the election at the local level. No need to worry about mayhem on January 6, 2025 when Congress meets in joint session; the election deniers plan to stop a result right away if it looks like Harris is winning. Their goal: Refuse to certify anywhere—even a county that Trump won—and prevent certification in that state, which prevents certification of the presidential election. A Harris victory could become a nightmare.

An investigation by Rolling Stone identified “in the swing states of Arizona, Georgia, Michigan, Nevada, North Carolina, and Pennsylvania . . . at least 70 pro-Trump election conspiracists currently working as county election officials who have questioned the validity of elections or delayed or refused to certify results.” Of those 70, 22 of them already have “refused or delayed certification” in recent past elections. Nationwide, Republicans have refused to certify results at least 25 times since 2020, in eight states—the most in Georgia.

The article describes social media posts from the zealots who have infiltrated election administration as showing “unapologetic belief in Trump’s election lies, support for political violence, themes of Christian nationalism, and controversial race-based views.” There are more than enough such individuals in these key posts to bring us to a constitutional crisis. “I think we are going to see mass refusals to certify the election” in November, Democratic election lawyer Marc Elias told Rolling Stone. “Everything we are seeing about this election is that the other side is more organized, more ruthless, and more prepared.” Sit with that.

Then there is this. Trump’s self-destructive attacks on Georgia’s popular governor made the headlines from his Atlanta rally last Saturday, but he also singled out for praise three little-known Georgians—Janice Johnston, Rick Jeffares, and Janelle King—calling them “pitbulls fighting for honesty, transparency, and victory.” Who are Johnston, Jeffares, and King? They are three of the five members of Georgia’s State Election Board. Three days after Trump’s speech, this past Tuesday, those three Republicans approved a new rule requiring a “reasonable inquiry” prior to election certification that—while vague and undefined—could be exploited to delay certification and threaten the statewide election certification deadline of November 22.

The law in Georgia, where Trump and fourteen1 others are charged with plotting to overturn the 2020 election result, requires county election boards to certify results “not later than 5:00 P.M. on the Monday following the date on which such election was held”—so this year, by the evening of November 11. The secretary of state is then to certify the statewide results “not later than 5:00 P.M. on the seventeenth day” after the election, so November 22.

Across the country, the November election results will have to be certified in more than 3,000 counties, and all state results must be final by the time electors meet in each state on December 17. Members of county election boards are not tasked with resolving election issues; certification is mandatory and “ministerial,” not discretionary. Disputes over ballot issues are separate from the certification process—investigated and adjudicated by district attorneys, state election boards, and in court. Election experts say the new rule could disrupt the entire process across the state by allowing local partisans to reject results. And Georgia appears to be at the center of Trump’s plans. Casting doubt on Fulton County, which makes up the bulk of Democratic votes in the state, will help him claim he won the Peach State as the rest of the results come in red.

But even without an explicitly permitted “inquiry” like the new Georgia rule provides, Republicans in other swing states still plan on acting at the county level to slow or stop certification. Because questioning the outcome at the very start of the process will create delay. Any doubt and confusion, and perhaps even violence, makes it easier to miss essential deadlines and can threaten the chance that the rightful winner prevails. Election deniers also hope that sowing chaos might prompt GOP legislatures to intervene—in Georgia, Arizona, or Wisconsin for example—a dangerous scenario I wrote about in April.

[...] It’s crucial that these plans are widely publicized. And they can be. Just like Project 2025, which was virtually unheard of and is now in the forefront of the political debate. Putting a media spotlight on this issue will force Republican officials to address what they are well aware of and are refusing to call out. Yesterday CBS News reported Biden said in his first interview since leaving the presidential race he is “not confident at all” there will be a peaceful transfer of power if Trump loses. Harris isn’t likely to talk about this in her campaign, so it’s critical that other high-profile surrogates do. President Obama, President Clinton, Hillary Clinton, and others must educate voters about the plot underway to force more public pressure and accountability on the process. Every Republican must be asked about local certification of elections, electors honoring the popular vote of their state, preventing political violence—all of it. Repeatedly. As Elias told an interviewer, there are things we can do, as citizens willing to invest some time, to take action. This isn’t a threat from abroad. This year—and likely for years to come—we will all have to continue to fight against what our fellow Americans are doing to subvert elections. Because without free elections—and facts and truth—we cannot be a free country.

A.B. Stoddard wrote in The Bulwark that Republicans will seek to cause chaos post-election to try to block certification of a potential Kamala Harris win.

[lytkin20s]

Intro !! (¬_¬")

Nicolas | they/he | 16 y.o. | mexico + canada | INFP

ִ ࣪𖤐 Fav cases: alyssa bustamante, dnepropetrovsk maniacs, jokela, nevada-tan, andrew blaze, kerch, columbine, suzano massacre, robb elementary, academy maniacs, brandon hole, sandy hook,unabomber, isla vista, virginia teach, marino loko, uvalde, jodi arias, night stalker, robbie hawkins,artem iskhakov, colt gray+

Ily nikita lytkin. :3

ִ ࣪𖤐 Interests: true crime, duck! the carbine high massacre, mcr, madoka, bungou stray dogs, horror, vocaloid, lolcows, jujutsu kaisen, draw, litchi hikari club, sonic, genshin, one piece, weeb comics like ranfren, minecraft, nana, wreating, literature, breaking bad, saw, goth, politic, ANYY true crime documentary, doomverse, all spiderman movies, the batman, vamps, elephant, donnie darko, girl interrupted, kuroshitsuji, lps, chikawa, vkei, cry of fear, mlp, hannibal, zero day +

ִ ࣪𖤐 favorite perpetrators: nikita lytkin, elliot rodger, adam lanza, andrew blaze, alyssa bustamante, luigi mangione, pekka eric, dylan kleebold, nevada-tan, yuka takaoka.

ִ ࣪𖤐 Music: korn, slipknot, rammstein, KMFDM, alexg, mayhem, radio head, mitski, nirvana, deftones, gulu gulu, kanetojuusei, mindless self indulgence, atarashii gakko, she wants revenge, the smiths, rory in early 20s, misfits, metallica, my chemical romance, weezer, the beatles, depresion sonora, scary bitches, brutal pig, parálisis permanente, cannibal corpse +

blue: fav

You can talk to me via DM!

eng/esp

Yes!

I really don't have very strong restrictions, if you don't break anything you are welcome!!

+14/-25 y.o.

No!

racists,homophobes, xenophobes, edgys -13 y.o.

S T A M P S . . .

[ms-scarletwings]

Took longer than expected to hunt and pin down the most haunting soundtrack from MPN2 but now that I have…. Goddamn.

I really mean… this is bone chilling to me, in context. Down to the title. Out of everything Locknar contributed to this game it sticks out like a gangrenous thumb. Here we had this collection of off the wall energy Drum’n Bass, pumped up electronic smacks that bopped you through every step of wanton mayhem and carnage, and then, completely out of left field, this was the ambience backdropping the final fight of the whole adventure.

Most impactful to me probably because I feel how it highlights something incredibly tragic about Hank J Wimbleton himself, as I listen to the theme of his “betrayal”.

Not in a way that makes you feel pity for him, but something closer to horror? Horror at knowing that maybe in another time and place there was an otherwise unremarkable man behind those goggles. That there is still a man now, with humor and personality and feelings and wants like anything else harboring a soul, but sure as can be not a shred of mercy. He’s not a numb shell, but actually so disturbingly full of bloodthirst, of ruthlessness and arrogance. It’s almost easy to forget how much anger he can also have when he communicates the bulk of it through action alone.

You know that saying about how the dog that doesn’t bark should be feared so much more than the one that does? The scariness of Hank is the scariness of the dog that will lunge without a single sound of warning, save than a heart-stoppingly quiet stare through you.

There’s some ungraspable method to his madness that makes him all the more uncanny for it, too. He will run a chainsaw through a fleeing, unarmed opponent no hesitation, but he won’t bring himself to jump a toll booth arm he could go out of his way to raise. He’d slaughter his only allies in cold blood, but would take a pause to pat a kitten if he encountered one. We know he wanted to pursue hobbies, that he’s dabbled in real estate, but the path of a neverending cycle of dealing & receiving death comes most natural to him, and he has no strong enough interest in fighting that destiny.

You’d look into a monster like that and think the worst thing would be seeing emptiness. Hank is scary because you’d look into his gaze and instead find a solid pool of red that blocks you from seeing whatever may be further down. He doesn’t even hide a damn thing, really, people just don’t want to believe their own eyes. They want to think if anyone were that cold blooded and dangerous they couldn’t be the same person that works with 2bdamned and the goals of Status Quo, that they wouldn’t proactively protect Sanford in a fight and be capable of the calm, even goofy moments between storms. That kind of lethality is much more comfortable to be around if you can imagine its only being directed at those who deserve it or brought it upon themselves.

For better or worse, Hank isn’t even the kind to take advantage of this; he just simply is what he is without a single shit to give for the reaction it gets him. He’s no hero, he’s no megalomaniac, he’s definitely not a showman like Tricky. It’s no performance and it’s no secret behind a facade: this is the most wanted, deadly person in Nevada- borderline a force of nature you can avoid, you can work with, but you cannot stop and you cannot appeal to some sympathetic vein or better nature inside of it. Doc likely understands this entirely. Part of the entire reason he employs Hank rather than become another one of the failed lineup of his would-be assassins is because he keeps score, and every army that has ever stood in the way of that walking disaster hasn’t succeeded.

And maybe he has seemed to prove it is the smarter bet to make, but in this moment here came our reminder that it’s still a gamble of its own. There is logic and consistency to how Hank ticks. He still is the same guy we came all this way with, all the fun and hijinks included, but in this moment not a single second of it is going to matter. And in this moment your only surprise was staring down the same madness from the other side of the barrel. For years we beloved the protagonist from every other angle as the audience, but what, did we ever wonder, have the victims always seen, looking back at them face to face?

Nothing but a murderer.

[listenheresweaty]

Ok uh here goes

Can I get revivedbur headcanons for a reader who was very hurt by his betrayal? Like all rev wants to do is be nice to reader and love them but they want nothing to do with him?

-roses 🥀

ohhh boy my first ask

first off i wanna say that i absolutely love this idea. perfect angst fodder mmm

im not that great at writing angst. when im not sure what to write i add a lot of insignificant details until i get motivation. so hopefully this is satisfying :) If not, i'll try to come up with some more concise headcanons for wilbur trying to regain the reader's affections.

-----

First off, I'd like to point out that Wilbur right after revival and Wilbur a couple days after revival (especially after the events of hitting on 16) are quite different

When he's freshly revived, Wilbur is ecstatic. He's alive, rejuvenated, and ready to cause mayhem in every conceivable corner of the server.

Ever the ambitious man, his first concerns are with gaining power--- or, rather, interfering with power. He wants to become relevant, involved in the incessant, political push-and-pull of mankind that has interested him since a young age.

Eventually, though, the adrenaline wears off and he starts thinking about the people in his life. Tommy, who he had immediately recruited for his expeditions to Las Nevadas. Phil and Technoblade, who he visited gladly. And you. You're there, just a short 5 minute walk from Technoblade's house.

Wilbur's sitting at the table with Phil, making small talk about the weather or something when you walk in, throwing open the door with a huff and brushing the snow out of your hair. You look a mess, hair wet and plastered to your cheeks and your nose red and sniffling.

God, how he's missed you.

You freeze when you see him, your voice dying in your throat.

Wilbur smiles oh so sweetly, opening his mouth to speak.

Phil accidentally interrupts him, standing up and explaining the situation to you--- yes, the rumors were true. Yes, Dream is on his necromancer arc. No, he's not Ghostbur.

Wilbur tries his best to speak with you, but it's hard with Phil and Techno there. And for some reason you won't speak to him directly, asking all questions about him to Phil, such as "When was he revived? Was it really dream who revived him?"

When you do address him, your answers are clipped, polite but distant.

He figures it's just because it's awkward with Phil around.

But even when he manages to catch you alone, you try to push him away, glaring at him before stalking off with your jaw clenched and your face hidden from his view.

ouch.

That doesn't deter him for long: Quackity had brushed him off with an eye roll and a dismissive wave of the hand, and yet their rivalry is still underlined by a vague sense of respect and friendliness. (keyword: vague). So, he'll just act the same as he does with Quackity!

But as soon as he starts pestering you too, popping up in your house to nick a few items and smirk at you, the look in your eyes stops him dead in his tracks.

"Get out of my house, Soot!" Your tone of voice catches him off guard. There isn't a trace of amusement or playful exasperation. Your annoyance is so profound it borders on disgust.

All the lighthearted mischievousness that had been previously dancing in his rib cage is extinguished in a heartbeat. His smirk fades, and he stands in silence.

"Didn't you fucking hear me? Get out!"

"Darling, I-I.. " He laughs nervously. "I was just joking, you can have your stuff back---"

"I don't care if you steal, leave or burn them. I want you out of my house."

"But--... I don't--"

"---And don't call me darling."

"I don't understand."

"What? What don't you understand?"

"I didn't.. I just want to talk." He raises his hands in surrender, exhaling slowly. "I just wanted to talk."

"I don't want to talk." You say, quiet and composed once more. "You aren't welcome here. Just--- get out. Please."

He wanted to stay and argue, but something about the way you were looking at him was almost more suffocating than Limbo. He turned tail and nearly bolted out of there.

---

He doesn't visit you for a while after that. It's even worse if you had been attached to Ghostbur--- because of course you were attached to Ghostbur.

And after hitting on 16? When he goes on his apology arc?

If people don't accept your apology, Phil had said, you need to let them go.

And so Wilbur does the same thing with you as he did with Tommy: avoiding you like the plague in fear of having to inevitably let you go.

He still spends his time thinking about you, of course. Whenever you two accidentally end up in the same area, he stands to the side, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

The only way he's going to end up talking to you is if Eret sets it up, not revealing it to either of you until you're face to face.

You've calmed down since your last encounter with Wilbur. Although your opinions haven't changed, you willingly sit down to talk with him.

He, too, is less insistent with his apology. "Listen, I-I.. I know this won't fix things. I don't expect them to."

Wilbur pauses, and you raise an eyebrow for him to continue.

"But you-- you mean a lot to me." He says, wincing at the immediate scoff from you. "You do. You mean the world to me."

"Months. Months you lied to me, in Pogtopia. Months we all spent slaving away to get L'Manburg back-- and I did it all for you! I fought for that country because you loved it like life itself. You watched us fight for it, you let us bleed and sweat and shed tears for it, all while knowing all our efforts would be in vain because you'd be blowing it to pieces regardless. And then you up and left! You left us all, left us to pick up your pieces and drag your body to be buried. "

" ______." Wilbur said your name, quietly.

"-- And you proposed to me! The day beforewe were about to fight to get back L'Manburg, you got down on one knee and proposed.--"

"______." Wilbur repeated.

"You promised we'd have a life after the war. You looked me in the eyes and promised me this, knowing damn well what would happen the next day."

Wilbur doesn't say anything. His shoulders sag, deflating.

You sigh too. "And then you're revived. Months go by, I don't hear a word from you--- not that I was asking to--- and now you're apologizing."

Wilbur falls silent. "I'm selfish."

You purse your lips and move to speak, but he cuts you off.

"I'm not saying that to provoke pity or fish for compliments or serve an excuse. I'm just stating the fact. I am, at heart, a selfish person. I-- that's why I proposed to you that day. I-I knew it would hurt. I thought it would.. keep you closer, wanting to avoid you leaving me. Even though I was the one leaving." He exhales, running a hand through his hair.

The brutal honesty has you dumbfounded, searching for any traces of trickery or manipulation-- but not finding any. He seems genuine. Incredibly self-depreciating, but genuine.

"..And that's the reason I haven't apologized to you until now." Wilbur continues, seeing that you weren't going to speak. "I didn't.. I couldn't bear to hear a formal rejection."

You don't know what to do, having exhausted yourself with your outburst earlier. So you just nod in understanding.

"I-I'm going to be honest. I really, really don't want to let you go. But I've promised myself that that's what I'll do if you don't accept my apology. If you want me to leave you alone, say the word. You won't have to see me again. But if there's anything I can do, anything to earn a second chance for myself--- I'll do it." He rambles on. "I don't need you to love me. I want you to--- I really want you too-- but I don't need you to. I just don't want you to hate me."

You chew on your bottom lip thoughtfully. "I don't hate you."

He looks relieved, hope lighting up his features.

"...But I don't know if I'll accept your apology."

His face falls.

"I know I don't accept it right now. And I think that's understandable. I want to accept it sometime in the future, Wilbur, I just.. I need time."

Wilbur nods, mouth twitching as he works up the nerve to speak. "Would you.. prefer if I stayed away, during that time?"

"I don't want you to outright avoid me." You admit. "If we happen to end up in the same place together, I´ll talk to you. But I think some distance would be helpful."

"Yeah." He manages, clearing his throat. "Yeah, I'll... I can wait."

Wilbur looks back up at you. "I'll wait for you." He promises.

and then he leaves for utah

[beemers-hell]

With Bank and her constant mask wearing (and since it was mentioned and drawn that she always worn it even as a kid), who initiated the shift to get her into putting the face covers on? How did it start up?

Also bonus question, if she had been wearing them since she was young, has her baby masks and goggles ever been saved/stored as memorabilia or sentimental value? Has any of the babies/wimblekids attempted to wear them?

Initially it was Doc actually! When shit started hitting the fan in Nevada, when Bank was little, he had Hank sew together tiny little masks for her for whenever Doc would need to take her outside for any reason (like pediatric stuff, that kind of thing) because he was worried about her getting sick from all the chaos and mayhem going on. Eventually when she got old enough where he could start taking care of her medical needs, they realized that she just liked wearing masks all the time, so they let her lol

And of course they do! They're stashed away with all of her other baby toys and memorabilia from when she was an infant/toddler, who would wanna let those go lmao? And, yeah, of course the triplets have tried getting into them, they love snooping around and taking things that aren't theirs lol

[diediegamchicothdie]

Cherry Pie

[Pelle and Quorthon]

Efectivamente, cogieron.

5/?

También disponible en AO3!

— Entonces, desde la inauguración de “Helvète” las cosas han sido tensas, no he estado tan pendiente por la banda porque ya casi nace mi nena, entonces, se desesperó, estaba con un tipo de fiera — explico tranquilamente, mientras vacía el tarro de mentas en el mostrador, recibiendo una leve tos como respuesta — empezó buscando vocalistas, eso fue inmediatamente luego de tu salida, pero fue horrible, me daba pena con el pobre bastardo de Attila, le gritaba diciendo que él nunca sería tú y no podría reemplazarte, lo amenazó de muerte.

— Suena como él, pero no habla en serio, solo está molesto…

— Suenas bastante conciliador, no trates de justificarlo por ser Øystein — acusó molesto mientras se recostaba su cuerpo en el mostrador, volviendo a escuchar la tos, seguramente creado por la nevada de la noche anterior — ¡déjame continuar! — ordenó tomando un momento para aclarar su voz — pues Attila no lo soporto y se fue, en este punto me arrepiento de no haberlo seguido, pero ese no es el punto, ¿Conoces a un tal Varg? — preguntó curioso, y cuando recibió un gesto positivo con la cabeza — bueno, estaban y otro tipo como aspirantes de vocalista: Erik y Varg, entonces los puso a pelear, un tipo de competencia para alimentar su ego.

— Él, es así, pero seguramente solo es algo para la escena, él ama la escena, yo creo que si necesita teatralidad para elegir un vocalista o algo deberían dejarlo.

— Para haber terminado tan mal lo justificas bastante — exclamó en un reclamo bastante molesto, pero la mirada distante no le permitió seguir discutiendo aquel punto — ganó Varg, y todo ha sido extraño desde entonces, es asfixiante estar con ellos en una relación bastante tensa, ambos tratan de ser la voz del “circle”, ¿sabes?

— Øystein puede tener cara de bebé, pero él no es un bebé, puede manejarlo, es inteligente, se las arreglará.

— No, esto solo va a ir a peor, está yendo a más, y desde ahora lo veo empeorar — amenazó fuertemente al sueco quien tapo su boca evitando toser en voz alta — no quiero abandonar la banda, llevo muchos años de mi vida invertidos en ella y aunque no creo que funcione, quiero darle una oportunidad más — dijo en un tono más conciliador tratando de convencer al rubio frente a él — entonces todo se está yendo a la mierda, y sería genial que volvieras.

Explico Jørn de manera casual, jugando con las tarjetas encima del mostrador, con su postura relajada, sin las pelotas de mirarle a los ojos. Se comportaba como si su petición no hubiera sido un golpe bajo para el Sueco, quien deseaba ser consumido por su tonto suéter de invierno. El frío era implacable, la nieve caía y congelaba todo a su paso, pero el cuerpo de Pelle estaba caliente, terriblemente ardiente, como un pedazo de carbón durmiendo en sus pulmones, convirtiendo su boca en una chimenea que solo escupía y escupía.

— No creo que eso sea posible Jørn, he estado haciendo otras cosas, otros planes, lejos de la música — murmuró el sueco tratando de controlar sus tosidos, pero también algo apenado por su respuesta, culpable de no poder complacer aquella petición — estoy en otro punto de mi vida ahora, lejos de lo que fue ‘Mayhem” para mí.

Aquella frase hizo molestar al castaño que solo soltó un suspiro de enojo, mordió su labio, pero trato de continuar hablando sin crear alguna escena digna de una novia celosa — Sé que aún estás molesto con Øystein, a este punto creo que el único que está conforme con su acto infantil es Faust que parece su perro, pero créeme Pelle, sé que si le vuelves a pedir ser su vocalista te aceptaría.

— Sé que él me aceptaría, pero no quiero volver a ser su vocalista, ya no quiero volver a Noruega y estoy bien aquí, me siento bien, hace tanto tiempo no me sentía tan cómodo en un lugar, y finalmente estoy haciendo cosas, estoy yendo alguna parte, no quiero perder eso.

— Nunca pensé que dirías que estarías bien trabajando para Quorthon, siempre lo insultabas.

Señaló Jørn con su expresión más que incrédula, sin poder entender por completo la actitud de aquel rubio, pero para darle crédito parecía mucho más cuidado. Su piel parecía rojiza, pero no por el frío, era un leve rosado que se escondía en su piel blanca, los labios usualmente rotos estaban sanos y un poco húmedos, y su cuerpo aún cubierto por una exagerada capa de ropa ancha perteneciente al invierno, su figura parecía estar más sana. Tan irónico como era, el odio logró hacer florecer al rubio ante el ojo ciego de sus excompañeros de banda, que apenas tenían algún conocimiento de su vida en esos últimos meses.

Pelle por su parte, aún se mantenía incómodo, realmente había estado molesto por mucho tiempo, tanto que deseaba matar a Øystein y ponerse su piel como un traje, comerse su corazón e intercambiar sus ojos para jamás separarse, su mente perversa siempre estuvo planeando alguna manera de retenerlo, nunca dejarlo. Ahora estaba en una extraña paz, no diría que era feliz, pero lograr cosas poco a poco lo mantenía tranquilo, me gustaba estar tranquilo.

— Lo sigo insultando, que sea mi jefe no significa que lo respete o algo así — explicó quitando la seriedad a su vínculo laboral — simplemente, estamos bien, creo que llegamos a un punto donde nos soportamos.

— ¿Son amigos?

Cuestionó nuevamente, como si tratara de llegar a una verdad que no estaba seguro de que quería conocer del todo, en su interior existía una voz que gritaba que no estaba listo para conocer aquella revelación.

— Peor… — dijo en un tono juguetón, abriendo una menta y metiéndola en su boca, un esfuerzo pera no recordar sus encuentros con el mayor, como en ese punto se habían revolcado en cada rincón de la tienda, con su jefe quien lo esperaba con su oreja pegada en la oficina, sabía que no podía evitar escuchar sus conversaciones — pero, mira Jørn, simplemente creo que no sería prudente volver, ya se lo expliqué a Jon. Yo, de verdad espero que “Mayhem” triunfe y Øystein lo logré, al final él siempre ha sido la banda, yo no, hay mejores vocalistas ahí afuera, solo espero una copia del álbum apenas se estrene.

— Comprendo, pero si quieres volver llámame, yo te vendré a recoger.

Término el castaño en un tono claramente decepcionado, solo pudo darse la vuelta, escuchando un leve “nos vemos, felices fiestas” de parte del rubio, quien impaciente espero que esté saliera por la puerta. Apenas miró al noruego salir por la puerta, se apresuró a correr hacia la entrada, cerrando la puerta y cambiando el letrero a “cerrado”, estar enojado era poco para lo que sentía en ese momento.

Su cuerpo estaba poseído por una intensa furia, que lo hacía temblar desde los dedos hasta querer vomitar sangre. Traición, eso sentía, una traición tan profunda que podía sentir una puñalada con cada paso que daba. Recordaba como se lo había pedido, se lo había dicho más de una vez, no quería al tal Kristian cerca de sus asuntos, le había repetido cientos de veces que era un poser, nomás que un mediocre, que su banda apestaba y parecía marica. Tenía todas las buenas razones: su música mediocre, triste imitación al black metal, su estúpido peinado el cual parecía haber sido realizado por la lengua de una vaca, su apariencia incómodamente robusta y su ideología de blanco perdedor.

Como detestaba a Kristian, estaba tan alto en su lista de sujetos no gratos, y que Øystein no hubiera esperado a enfriar sus sábanas para meterlo en su cama, estaba enloqueciendo. Se sentía realmente patético, pues mientras él lloraba como un idiota, deseando su tacto, extrañando sus besos, soñando con volver a despertar a su lado, el otro hijo de puta estaba mojando su verga con el jodido gordo de probable pene pequeño. Estaba harto, dolor en su garganta, fuego en la sangre.

No dudó entrar a la oficina, el castaño lo miró sorprendido, estaba a unos pocos centímetros de la puerta, sabía que lo había capturado, pero los celos patológicos de Thomas ahora no era su problema. Los ojos azules del mayor miraron fijamente a Pelle, quien parecía a punto de asesinarlo, tomó aire, listo para disculparse, pero no fue necesario en ese momento, el rubio se arrojó sobre su cuerpo, juntando sus labios furiosamente. El rubio apretaba su cabello castaño en fuertes puños que volvían sus nudillos rojos como su rostro, abría su boca tratando de comerse su rostro, deseando comerlo, una clara negación de la voluntad del mayor, no le importaba su deseo ahora, lo quería para él.

Thomas tomó al menor de la cadera, juntando sus cuerpos, aplastando las masas sobre el escritorio de madera, frotándose como un perro necesitado contra la ropa holgada del rubio, quien había estirado su mano en el escritorio, rápidamente encontró unas tijeras y con estas abrió la camiseta del castaño, alcanzado a rasgar su piel. Ambos se separaron, en total shock, con las gotas de sangre saliendo, y la ira de Pelle aumentando.

— Estoy jodido, realmente jodido, él se está follando con un gordo de pene pequeño.

Aseguró con rabia en sus ojos, ya no lloraba, para nada, estaba con su cuerpo contra la madera, haciéndolo estremecer en una revelación incómoda de sangre y sudor, pero Thomas no se sorprendió. Se mantuvieron en silencio, solo sus respiraciones mientras Pelle tomaba fuerzas para volver a clavar la tijera al costado del castaño.

— ¡Un puto gordo que le gusta el señor de los anillos y tiene la verga pegada de semen podrido!

Volvió a gritar haciendo una pataleta bajo el cuerpo del mayor, un incómodo movimiento de extremidades chocando con sus vergas frotando fuertemente bajo la ropa. Thomas, aun en la bruma del atónito acto, acarició la herida, su sangre fresca, el rostro rojo de Yngve. Todo lo llevaba a la misma conclusión: rabia, rápidamente alzo su mano, en un fuerte movimiento dejó caer la palma sobre el rostro del menor, creando un sonido sordo, carente de eco que terminó con la lucha del rubio, quien aforado suspiro, abriendo ampliamente su mandíbula. Su rostro se contrajo de dolor, era obvio que no era un gran peleador, no tenía mucha fuerza, pero las clases de Taekwondo dieron algo de fruto cuando pudo separarse del más alto con un rodillazo en el estómago.

— ¡Idiota! No tenías que golpearme.

Acusó el rubio mientras se sentaba en el escritorio, con sus piernas abiertas y el semblante frío, aún incrédulo por el actuar del castaño que intentaba recuperar el aliento. El pecho de Pelle subía y bajaba mientras su mano izquierda acariciaba su mejilla en un acto de cariño, pero la derecha sostenía las tijeras, jugueteando con la punta encima de su erección.

— Me golpeaste…

Volvió a reclamar, ahora en un tono más bajo, como si hubiera procesado el hecho, recordando el dolor y el hormigueo en la piel afectada, como si fuera un toque adictivo. Miro a Thomas, con los ojos abiertos, desafiantes, suplicantes, levemente empapados, no tenía que decir más, su rostro volvió a levantarse ante Thomas, quien tomó aire para acercarse nuevamente, dejando otro golpe en el rostro del rubio. Esta vez, Pelle recibió con gusto aquel golpe contra su sensible piel, no se alteró esta vez, alzó más su cadera, apuntando su pelvis huesuda hacia el sol y los dientes hundiéndose en sus labios, en una expresión de plena satisfacción.

— Eres un enfermo — dijo con los labios apretados en notoria ira, una mueca de completa satisfacción mientras arrancaba el tonto suéter de Navidad de su delgado cuerpo — ¿Te gustan que te golpeen?

Murmuró en el mismo tono bajo, como si estuviera analizando la situación por completo antes de finalmente decidir sacar su erección. Su acto tan egoísta solo alimentaba la solemnidad del rubio, quien paso la punta del arma blanca sobre su propia verga aún protegida bajo la mezclilla, en una línea vertical, listo para penetrar su miembro ansioso de dolor.

— Me gusta que me golpeen, no me gustas tú — rio el menor, acomodándose de rodillas sobre el escritorio, dejando que varios papeles cayeran sobre el suelo — me gusta el dolor Thomas — aseguro quitando su camiseta dejando su pálida piel al aire, pasando las uñas por su pecho, dejando un rastro rojo brillante por su carne — mátame.

— No voy a hacerlo — Aseguro el castaño, tomando al rubio del cabello, obligando a verlo a los ojos — no quiero cumplir tu estúpido capricho, tu sueño infantil estar muerto.

La declaración era fuerte, una daga entre sus corazones, un espacio enorme entre sus mentes, un desierto. Thomas hundiendo sus dedos en la herida, en un acto de completa entrega, los dedos ardían dentro de su carne, como si la su propia sangre fuera veneno. Alzó el rostro de Pelle, apoyándose de su largo cabello para controlar su cabeza como si fuese un títere. Controlaba su cráneo con gran facilidad, presionando su cuerpo hacia abajo, logrando que el rubio se pusiera en cuatro sobre la madera. Pelle, exhibía su figura como una perra de concurso, dejaba la mano ensangrentada de abrir su boca, bajando su mandíbula hasta casi rozar el cuello. Abrió su mandíbula en su forma casi antinatural, con la tensión en los músculos de las mejillas, los dedos gruesos del castaño se querían esconder en su garganta, dejando el sabor metálico caer por su laringe, una funda de terciopelo extrañamente cálida.

— Estás vivo — reprochó el mayor, moviendo sus dedos de atrás para adelante, tratando de meter su mano en la cavidad del rubio — ¿El dolor no te recuerda lo vivo que estás?, ¿cada vez que te golpeó no sientes tu corazón latir?

Cuestionó jalando más fuerte su cabello, arrancando largos cabellos que se enredaron entre sus dedos, la saliva caía como una cascada entre su piel, un río transparente de espuma blanca que se aferraba a la piel bronceada del mayor. Pelle, con sus ojos llorosos, como cristal de las estanterías, una larga mirada que venía desde el fondo de sus tropas. ¿Reconocía la vida?, la vida a través del dolor, la vida a través del placer, un largo recorrido que nacía en el cerebro primitivo, crecía en el pecho, alimentaba su verga en un deseo profundo. ¿Se reconoce la vida a través de la sumisión? El arrodillarse, qué patético se sentía, que bien se sentía, qué deseado se sentía, una perra en un aparador.

— ¿Puedes responderme? — cuestionó sacando los dedos mojados de la dulce boca de su amante — ¿puedes entenderme?

— Estoy vivo — murmuró en voz baja, agarrando con precaución la madera, temeroso de caer, pero molesto de revelar la obviedad de su naturaleza humana — estoy vivo, realmente estoy vivo.

— Esto es real, dolorosamente real — aclaró caminando alrededor del joven, tomando las tijeras, para abrir un agujero en la parte posterior de sus jeans, apuñalando la tela, para terminar de abrir la mezclilla con sus manos — ¿No es increíble vivir ahora? 

La pregunta retumbó en la mente de Pelle, odiaba cuando le decían ese tipo de cosas, varias veces había hablado de su deseo de morir, un secreto electivo, por supuesto, aunque el único que lo sabía de forma descarada era su padre. Recordaba bien cuando le decía que ya estaba cansado de vivir, y aunque no era lo más sano recordar a tu progenitor mientras te azotan el culo y jadeas de placer, el comentario de Thomas estaba en su cerebro, como una semilla de duda. “Creo que necesitas una novia” escuchó a su padre sugerir cuando hablo de su incapacidad de conectar con las personas, como a pesar de sus esfuerzos sentía una barrera invisible que lo alejaba del mundo exterior. ¿La torpeza social se arregla tocando los senos de alguna chica?, también recordaba bien como me atribuyó su tristeza a la falta de sexo, un “Deberías empezar a coger” había salido de la boca de su padre un par de veces. Aquella frase lo hacía cuestionar su necesidad sexual básica ¿Estaba teniendo suficiente sexo ahora?, lo sabía bien, desde aquella noche de verano no habían parado, no podían evitar ponerse las manos encima y caer ante la carne y el fuego, tanta pasión guardada, una relación incómoda que no nacía del amor, ni siquiera de la necesidad, animal. Tanto Thomas como su persona eran animales tomando el sexo como un juego de poder.

— Podría haber vivido muy muy bien sin esto.

Aseguró alejándose del mayor, para ponerse boca arriba, con sus piernas abiertas y la espada pegada a la superficie plana, dejando caer su cabeza hacia atrás, como un cadáver sin voluntad, listo para ser devorado. Los labios de Thomas se apresuraron a besar su cuello, sus manos hurgando en los muslos interiores del menor, apretando y rascando piel de leche en su camino a los genitales del menor. Siempre le había parecido curioso cómo Pelle era todo un sueco, resistiéndose a la ropa interior y desnudándose a la mínima oportunidad, pensaba que le gustaba ser observado, pero podrían intentar algo voyerista  otro día. Ahora estaba concentrado en aprestar su pequeña cintura, enterrando sus dedos en el recto del rubio quien celebraba moviendo su cadera de arriba abajo una y otra vez.

Las manos de Pelle abrazaban al mayor por el cuello, deseando que nunca se separara de su cuerpo, lo necesitaba todo, odiaba llegar al clímax porque eso significaba que debían alejar sus pieles, y él necesitaba un cuerpo de al menos 80 kilos encima de él, aplastando sus pulmones para funcionar. El sonido húmedo de los labios chocando contra el cuello sensible del rubio, quien reía y suplicaba más tratando de consumir al otro con ayuda de sus caderas, presionando el recto, cada vez empujando más y más adentro. La piel húmeda era un nido perfecto, el único punto de dulzura que el rubio podía ofrecer, Thomas lo escuchaba gemir, jadear su nombre, revolotear sus ojos con fuerza, negándose a cerrarlos, le parecía tan hermoso cuando se forzaba así mismo a verlo a través del orgasmo. 

El rubio salvaje como él solo, podía cambiar de un estado de total sumisión, como una muñeca que se deja manejar y golpear para volverse una fiera y atacar su yugular. Se movía escurridizo entre sus cuerpos, tomado el control con gran facilidad su cuerpo, un tipo de magia que lo conducía a doblegarse a sus piernas largas.

Impulsado por su mente confusa, Pelle se aferró al más alto, trepando como si fuera un árbol, clavando sus uñas mordidas por toda su espalda, con sus piernas entrelazadas en su vientre bajo, los talones cerca de su coxis, lanzando patadas con los talones, golpeando la parte baja de torso. Era cruel es sus actos, tenía toda la intención de que dolería, Pelle no era feliz hasta que mirara su cara en dolor, una mueca de incomodidad que le generaba su propia sonrisa, un movimiento sadista. Separó sus uñas mordidas de la carne y acarició el rostro en pena del castaño.

— ¿Tú crees que si seguimos follando a este ritmo…, ¿podría mejorar mentalmente?

Cuestionó deteniendo el acto de Thomas, quien, se levantó cargando al rubio, amarrado a su cuerpo como quien se aferra a una última esperanza. Los comentarios de Pelle siempre lo dejaban atónito, nunca sabía qué responder, quizás no existía una respuesta correcta para una persona desquiciada. Se sentó en el sillón, con sus pechos uno contra el otro, en un movimiento acelerado hasta volver a controlar su respiración.

— Creo que necesitas ir a terapia — aclaró finalmente soltado al menor, mientras acariciaba su cabello — por más que te folle o me folles, o lo que sea que sucede cuando juegas a estar muerto y que te encuentro por casualidad en la tina, nada de eso te va a arreglar.

El rubio suspiro frustrado, odiaba la insistencia de ir a un psiquiatra — parece que solo sabes decir eso — reclamo suspirando — cuando tenía 13 le dije a mi papá que ya no quería vivir, y me dijo que solo necesitaba una novia, más tarde me explicó que necesitaba sexo, creo que siempre me han gustado las tetas, pero no entendía el funcionamiento de las tetas, están para darles de comer a los bebés, pero los tipos gordos tienen tetas.

— Son grasa acumulada Pelle.

Explico el castaño, sin entender muy bien la dirección de la conversación, era como estar a merced de la lógica única del rubio, quien lo miro molesto, dándole una fuerte palmada en la frente para que lo dejara hablar.

— ¡Ya sé que es grasa acumulada!, es la única manera en la que me gusta la grasa… pero en ese entonces no entendía las tetas — murmuró separando sus pechos, subió ambas manos hasta donde se suponía que debían estar situados sus propios senos — había una idiota, se llamaba algo como Anna, Anya, una mierda así, como la odiaba, era una bastarda que se aseguraba de vigilar los pasillos para asegurarse que nadie viniera mientras los bastardos me golpeaban, pero… miraba mucho su pecho.

— ¿Acaso ella te gustaba?

Preguntó sin entender el punto de las explicaciones del rubio, pero la primera respuesta fue otro golpe de mano abierta, esta vez en la punta de su cabeza, y la segunda fue aún más extraña, un tipo de hechizo que durmió su cerebro por un breve instante:

— No, estaba comparando nuestros pechos, … Para la mitad del año escolar ella finalmente tenía unos lindos senos que apenas se notaban con las camisetas holgadas y la ropa de gimnasia, pero mi pecho seguía plano, sin lindas tetas para mí, estaba enojado, era tan injusto, yo también quería un par de lindos senos para jugar con ellos todo el día.

La explicación dejó atónito a Thomas, sin comprender realmente las razones del pensamiento de Pelle. El menor solo seguía tocando su pecho, en un intento inútil de encontrar algo de carne ahí, como si le estuviera quitando la piel a un hueso de pollo.

— ¿Quieres tener tetas?

Pelle asintió sin pensarlo demasiado, como si ya hubiera estado teniendo ese pensamiento desde hace mucho tiempo atrás, listo para tener su diatriba acerca de su necesidad de poseer senos.

— Un par de pequeños senos serían lindos, ¿no crees?, aparte no soy egoísta, también te dejaría jugar con ellos, no siempre son míos, pero sí lo haría.

Dijo en un intento de tranquilizar al mayor, quien le miraba confuso, como si tratara de calmar las preguntas de su mente, ofreciendo la tierna carne de su pecho como un tipo de favor.

— Pelle, ¿Quieres ser una chica?

Pregunto en la bruma del desconcierto, como si estuviera teniendo un mal sueño, no lo comprendía del todo, tampoco sus intenciones, sus sentimientos, quizás solo podía caminar a su lado, tratando de seguir su paso.

— No, también me gusta mi pene, ¿A ti no te gusta? — cuestionó al castaño, mientras tomaba su mano para que tomara su miembro, un falo alto y delgado como su portador, de punta rosada, mojado por el líquido pre seminal que no podía dejar de chorrear — solo quiero tener senos, unos lindos senos rocen la tela y no sé…, mis pezones son bonitos, pero son muy pequeños…

Él murmuró cayó en los oídos de Thomas, quien con su mano derecha tomó el pecho del menor, alzando sus dedos, empezando acariciar sus pezones. La respiración de Pelle se aceleró, gimiendo de emoción, estaba tan feliz, nunca le ponían atención a esa parte, sus piernas temblaron cuando el mayor empezó a golpear sus pezones, jalar las puntas rosadas totalmente erectas y finalmente chupar. Sus labios se mordían, los dientes luchaban hundiéndose en la maltratada carne de aquel “Ymir” caído, su cuerpo era delicioso, encontraba placer en cada pliegue, en sus huesos rotos y piel dañada. Yngve gemía, disfrutando de los cuidados del mayor, acariciando su cabello con la mano izquierda mientras la derecha se acomodaba incómodamente para acariciar el pene gordo, rojo, inflamado, como la erección de un perro de Thomas, como lo hacía temblar, quizás era la necesidad animal que tenía con el mayor. Tomó aliento, mirando hacia el techo, y pensó que pasaría si el sistema de lámparas les cayeran encima, quería correrse mientras moría, por eso necesitaba tan desesperado la verga de Thomas en su interior, un acto al cual mayor aceptó con la misma desesperación.

— Eres sexy… — murmuró el castaño con sus ojos cerrados, aun contra su pecho, pero sin dejar de moverse sobre el cuerpo de Pelle, follando las entrañas del menor para el placer de ambos cuerpos necesitados — eres demasiado sexy para ser un enfermo — aclaró nuevamente, besando el espacio entre sus pezones, dejando que sus labios cayeran justo en la planicie del esternón superior, acariciando con sus labios la armadura de su corazón — realmente sexy para estar demente, Pelle no sé qué embrujo me hiciste, funcionó, lo que sea que hayas hecho, tus animales muertos, los textos de Thelema, no sé, ganaste.

El rubio negó con su cabeza, mientras saltaba en el regazo de Thomas, volvió a tomarlo del cabello, logrando que se miraran a los ojos, una declaración de poder en su faena.

— Yo, no he hecho nada, solo no soportarte — aclaró en un tierno susurro — yo no te he embrujado, me dedico a odiarte y desearte, es como el “Marqués de Sade”, la lógica detrás de esto, la moral no existe Thomas, no estamos aquí porque sea correcto, nunca he guiado mi vida por lo correcto.

— Sé que no, eres un enfermo, nunca me cansaré de repetir lo enfermo que estás — reprochó el mayor, besando y mordiendo los labios hinchados, rojos como cereza de Yngve — no sé lo que te guía, lo que te consume la cabeza.

— El deseo, vivo por el deseo.

Aclaró el rubio, volviendo a besar al mayor, con sus manos sosteniendo su rostro, evitando que se volvieran alejar, derritiendo sus cuerpos, mojando cada parte de la anatomía, de los brazos que apretaban como cadenas. Los ojos brillosos de Pelle reflejaban su clímax, el dulce sabor del éxtasis que compartía con Thomas, su deseo compartido se derramaba. Semen espeso se expulsaba de su cuerpo, un ritual casi completo a excepción del disgusto del menor, quien se levantó con sus largas piernas temblorosas y nalgas desbordadas de la eyaculación del mayor, tan asqueroso.

— ¡Ya te he dicho que no lo hagas dentro! 

Reclamo tomando al castaño de la muñeca, aprovechando que seguía con la cabeza por las nubes por el orgasmo, no pudo luchar contra tanto capricho y reclamo, cayó al suelo como un vil objeto. El rubio, con su enojo a piel viva, se acomodó, poniendo pie y pie a cada lado de la cabeza del castaño, aplastando su cabello con zapatos repletos del polvo del sótano. Su cabeza bajó unos centímetros, apreciando el rostro de confusión de Thomas, tenía su cuerpo tembloroso, la verga suave y la mente llena de preguntas que no podría realizar, Pelle se sentó en su cara.

— ¡Limpia! — exigió, apretando sus muslos contra el rostro del mayor, mientras su mirada se fijaba en las botas negras del castaño en un triste intento de no volver a excitarse — ¿No te encanta la claridad post orgasmo? Yo siempre procuro masturbarme antes de hacer algo — explicó el menor, apretando sus puños sobre el pecho de Thomas, poniendo su cuerpo hacia adelante, tratando de mantener el equilibrio — me gusta tener mis grandes y flojas bolas libres antes de dibujar o componer.

Las manos de Thomas se enteraron en las nalgas rojas e irritadas de Pelle, moviendo su cuerpo de arriba para abajo, tratando de respirar y hacer una mejor labor con lo que tenía. Tomaba toda su concentración tratando de ser ágil metiendo toda su lengua hasta el fondo de recto, de manera torpe la carne húmeda penetraba el ano flojo del rubio quien se mantenía en su mundo.

— Eso es triste, cuando el sexo solo se vuelve una obligación biológica, me gusta el deseo, el deseo por encima de la moral, la moral es algo tan susceptible al cambio de generación, de población, de intereses — aseguro moviéndose al ritmo establecido por el mayor, sintiendo aquella boca chupar su ano con gran entusiasmo, no era un castigo — el deseo no cambia conforme a la moral, todo en nosotros es incorrecto, nuestros cuerpos se repelen, pero ¿Cómo no podemos estar juntos cuando el deseo es tan intenso?, la moral no se manifiesta físicamente, pero nuestro deseo, esto, tu lengua limpiando y comiendo mi mierda, esto es real.

Aseguró el menor, soltando el último gemido acompañado de una tos que lo hizo bajar del rostro de Thomas, quien rápidamente se acercó, abrazándolo por los hombros, su tos fuera fuerte e intensa, como un gato siendo torturado.

— Te traeré agua.

Prometió el mayor, dejando al chico sobre el suelo, este se retorció un poco más, tomando su suéter para tapar su boca hasta que finalmente pudo controlar su respiración, su pecho subía y bajaba acompañado de la sensación de ardor en su pecho. Thomas acarició su espalda ofreciendo una botella de agua y sentándose a su lado, dedicándose acariciar el cabello del rubio, en un movimiento de consuelo.

— No creo que nos una únicamente el odio o el deseo — aseguro tímidamente, como si no quisiera molestar demasiado el visón del mundo que tenía el rubio —pero me molestan tus ataques de tos, deberías ir al doctor.

Recomendó en voz baja, mirando la manzana de Adam subir y bajar, un movimiento tan hipnótico, lo relajaba, como si estuviera viendo un tipo de obra de arte viviente.

— Estoy bien, esas cosas vienen con el asma, me he sentido raro desde que estuve en Leipzig, mucha contaminación — murmuró apoyando su cabeza en el cuello de Thomas, cerrando sus ojos — odio ir al médico, es caro y nunca hacen nada.

El castaño suspiró rodando sus ojos para controlar su boca — podría hacer una lista con las cosas que odias y personas que odias: las semlas, Kate Bush, los cristianos, las personas gordas, la mayoría de música que no es metal especialmente el rap, Escandinavia, el avance tecnológico, la guerra cuando destruye lugares históricos, la televisión nacional Noruega, Garfield, los gatos, y a mí.

Término el mayor resignado por la situación del menor, odiaba que fuera tan obstinado en cuestión salud, podría jurar que lo miro escupir sangre alguna vez, pero no lo podía confirmar.

— No olvides a tu padre, y más porque tuvimos que cambiar de departamento — aseguro, sabiendo que era cuestión de tiempo para que su mudanza silenciosa al piso de Thomas se completará, aunque esté último lo mirará como si hubiera declarado la guerra a Yugoslavia — y no olvides a la estúpida Anya por sus senos precoces.

La amargura de su declaración tan fuerte como rotunda hizo reír al mayor quien bajo sus manos apretando el pecho de Pelle, quien esta vez trato de alejarse.

— ¡Para!

— No grites cuando tienes adolorida la garganta — pido con una voz severa mientras apoyaba su cabeza en el hombro de este en medio de su pataleta — me gustan tus tetas, lo juro, y si fueras una chica dejaría de ser marica solo para comerlas todo el día.

Pelle se quedó quieto, riendo ante el comentario y cerró sus ojos tomando un poco más de agua, como le picaba la garganta, eran residuos del cuerpo que se odia.

— Me gusta eso de dejar de ser marica…, soy tan marica para aguantarlo todo, para vivir inerte, si pudiera cortarme los dedos y atarme las manos… 

Divago nuevamente, pensamientos inconexos con su realidad, un estado de paz tan extraño, ya ni siquiera recordaba porque estaba enojado al principio. Había estado muy enojado con Øystein al principio de su separación, lo había maldecido, cuando él muriera lo arrastraría consigo, luego se sintió triste, tan desolado, pensando jamás iba a volver amar, que el amor que el noruego le brindaba no era fácil de encontrar y finalmente nostálgico. Más allá del reciente sentimiento de traición, todo era un recuerdo, el decir que alguna vez tuvo un amigo, su mejor amigo, obsesionado con el comunismo y la coca cola, con quien aprendió a besar. Estaba lejos de Noruega, y lo que fue ya nunca será.

— Lo estás haciendo bien, créeme, llevas buenas notas, tu portafolio está progresando y aunque no te puedes curar solo, lo estás intentando.

Esta felicitación sonrojó al menor quien empujó juguetonamente a Thomas con ayuda de su hombro, buscando la botella para beber agua.

— Puedes volverme hablar de los campos de “Fólkvangr” — preguntó en voz baja, sosteniendo su suéter fuertemente ya sentía la picazón en la garganta — quiero vivir en Transilvania, y tener un gran jardín para mí para plantar acónito y petunias, ir a la escuela de arte y hacer cómics como “Alan Moore”, pero una escuela de arte de verdad…, quiero eso.

Aseguró, tomando su suéter, apretando la lana contra su boca lista para toser, los dedos de Thomas lo consolaron, volviendo hablar del primer lugar que vez al llegar al “Valhalla”, su relato era calmo y firme, estable en el suelo de madera, su cuerpo caliente como medicina. Los ojos de Pelle se apretaron con fuerza, tosiendo toda la mucosidad que podía, las palabras dulces eran lejanas, como si quisiera tomar algo a la distancia. El frío del invierno no ayudaba a sus pulmones, realmente deseaba estar en un lugar más cálido, y aunque las palabras del cuento del castaño eran dulces como el té de frutos rojos que preparaba cada mañana, no pudo disminuir la mancha carmesí que apareció sobre la tela. Un derrame orgulloso de sangre que teñía la lana verde, la verdadera declaración de guerra para aquella pareja que solo podía observar la muestra del desgarro de los pulmones de Yngve.

[coastal-stargazing]

Mayhem in Nevada - What is it?

An idea for a crossover AU between Madness Combat and TMNT: Mutant Mayhem, in which Sanford is the still-living nephew of Baxter Stockman. In other words, Superfly has an older human cousin. However, Sanford's Dad who was Stockman's brother was separated from him at birth and was unaware that he was twin.

When April finds out about TCRI's discovery of Sanford, April and the mutants rescue and re-mutate Superfly before embarking the craziest family road trip of their lives to get tp Sanford before TCRI can use them for their nefarious purposes. Meanwhile, in Nevada, Status Quo is looking into a mysterious backer of the A.A.H.W. that also worked with Nexus Labs prior to Director Phobos dissenting.

I made this for clarification, as this AU is starting to gain some traction. The recent lack of activity was due to me being busy with schoolwork from college.

[ramon-balaguer]

The Happy New Year wasn’t so happy, in fact, pretty sad with the suicide of a Georgia Judge who tried to resign, because of poor voter show of only 6% to replace him and correctly opted to resign in order for the governor to appoint his replacement, which he Wrongly denied and let to Judge ending his career and life tragically in his courtroom office. 😢

It gets worse, with the Tragic Mayhem caused by several (5-6) Crazy IS Terrorist Pigs 🐖 in New Orleans using a pickup truck to ram through police barricades and run over many people, killing at least Innocent Lives, and eventually the driver Shamsud Din Jabbar (born in Texas) getting out and shooting at law enforcement, which returned fire and had a good kill 🤩 in killing the pig 🐽 where he stood. Not sure what the update is on the other Crazy Terrorist Pigs 🐷

This Heartbreaking Islamic Terrorist Attack last night in New Orleans’ New Year’s Celebration, I believe, is a direct result of Leftist Liberal Democrat Open Borders Policies and Lackadaisical view of ILLEGAL ALIENS entering and staying here ILLEGALLY and having babies, automatically making them citizens (like the now dead Crazy Terrorist Murderer) or eventually securing legal statuses for nefarious means. Such a beautiful and great American city and American Citizens. May GOD🎚️ bless the victims and their families and friends, and hold everyone accountable that Justice may Prevail. ⚖️

With #BloodyBiden's, #KacklingKaMala’s and #Dem’s Open Borders, Sanctuary Cities and Crime & Criminal Friendly Lawlessness...

- Terrorists & Violent Gangs and Crazies can just walk across the souther borders and do the terrorist attack themselves.

- Terrorists & Violent Gangs and Crazies can just walk across the southern borders and create sleeper cells all across the country.

- Terrorists & Violent Gangs and Crazies recruiters can just walk across the southern borders and brainwash and radicalize weak minded Americans.

The entire #KaMalaBiden regime are treasonous traitors and Must be Investigated for Truth & Justice. ⚖️ I don’t know about you but January 20th Can’t Get Here Fast Enough 😡🙏🇺🇸#REBTD😇

Georgia Breaking News 🗞️ https://www.foxnews.com/us/georgia-judge-final-day-bench-found-dead-courtroom

New Orleans Breaking News 📰 https://www.yahoo.com/news/orleans-attack-updates-10-dead-171833279.html

Nevada Breaking News 📡 https://www.yahoo.com/news/tesla-cybertruck-explodes-outside-trump-202302252.html

[calamari-minecraft-corner]

Dnd!Spooky is honestly a fucking Queen because she’s patiently waiting for Cala to come home after her great journey of exploring the land and suddenly Cala comes back with a fresh scar on her face and a necromantic mark around her neck and two men which one looks like he went to hell and back and the other one looks fucking suspicious and on edge and once Cala tells her that she’s wanted by the Las Nevadas Kingdom, Spooky joins the party with no hesitation to protect her wife and cause mayhem because honestly she wants to see how crazy whatever Cala roped herself into is as well as making sure that she doesn’t get hurt again.

Honestly goals.

[astra-galaxie]

Slade Masters

Biographical information

Full Name: Slade Masters

Alias(es): Deathstar

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Gay

Status: Deceased

Age: 73 (season 3)

Birth: 1943

Race: Human

Cause of Death: Shot five times - lungs, throat, head, and heart

Nationality: American

Origin: Nevada, USA

Residence:

Botswana, Africa

Nevada, USA (formerly)

Profession(s):

Mercenary

Hunting Instructor

Past profession(s): G.I.A. Agent

Affiliation(s):

SOMBRA

Moremi Game Reserve

G.I.A. (formerly)

Profile

Height: 6'0" Age: 73 (season 3) Weight: 240lbs Eyes: blue Blood: AB+

Hailing from Nevada, USA, Slade was a mercenary in his early seventies and was tall with a fit physique. He had blue eyes, short white hair on the sides, with the top half longer and combed to the right, and his tanned skin was riddled with scars and wrinkles. Slade wore light brown khaki shorts, a white t-shirt under a light-brown vest, dark brown hiking boots, and work gloves.

Synopsis

Slade was the victim of Star of Death.

He was an ex-G.I.A. Agent who left the agency when his secret mercenary life was discovered. He had secretly begun his illegal work in his late twenties after he started accepting bribes from criminals to "look the other way." His work quickly evolved, and soon he agreed to do dangerous missions for the galaxy's most wanted criminals.

One of these missions was from the Curator. Slade was hired to collect and return the Curator's prized hybrid, Goldie. Slade knew the mission would result in his double life being revealed, but he was tired of pretending to be the good guy and was ready to embrace his criminal life.

After successfully capturing Goldie and delivering it to the Curator, Slade joined the criminal underworld. He travelled the galaxy, causing mayhem wherever he went. He would do anything for the right price, from stealing to killing. He became renowned and feared for his work and relished in the spotlight.

But then the G.I.A. took down the illegal hybrid fighting circuit. And with the Curator going into hiding, Slade needed to become more careful, or in his case, paranoid. He evaded his ex-agency for decades, but as jobs became more scarce, he realized he couldn't run forever.

And so, Slade went to the one place he knew the G.I.A. would never think to look for him, Earth. He hid in plain sight and became a hunting instructor in Botswana under the disguise of being ex-military. But hunting animals for sport could not satisfy his bloodlust.

One day, Salde was approached by a member of an organization known as SOMBRA. The person told Slade of SOMBRA's mission to rid the world of the weak so that the strong would rule, and Slade saw this as the perfect opportunity to create a place where he would be revered for his work. He accepted the job offer and immediately began receiving orders for missions to carry out on SOMBRA's behalf.

Slade's most challenging mission for SOMBRA was to capture Bureau agent Fili Savage. According to SOMBRA's mole, Fili contained the secret to the original enhancement formula inside his DNA. With that formula, SOMBRA would be able to create an army of super soldiers who would help bring about the new age of humanity. Slade was surprised to learn that Fili was married to the hybrid Goldie, but he would enjoy torturing the hybrid by taking away its mate.

Capturing Fili was difficult as Slade didn't know what kind of species the blond was a defendant of, but he had fought enough plant-based aliens to know how to defeat the nature attacks. He took great satisfaction in beating Fili and took him to SOMBRA's secret island, where Metcalf could perform his tests and experiments.

Slade stayed on the island to assist in controlling Fili (now named Hemlock). He would punish the soldier when he misbehaved or when Hemlock needed a reminder of who he belonged to. He found the younger man's screams soothing and loved the little whimpers Hemlock made. All he needed was Goldie to torture beside its mate, and Slade would be a happy man.

When Salde learned that the Bureau had succeeded in saving Hemlock, he was pissed. He told Metcalf that sending Hemlock after the Bureau was a stupid idea, but the blue man hadn't listened to him! And now that Hemlock was under the protection of the Bureau and U.N.I.T, SOMBRA would never be able to get their hands on their soldier any time soon.

And so, Slade took on other missions for SOMBRA. While away on a mission, he would learn of Metcalf's death and the destruction of SOMBRA island. Slade wasn't surprised that Metcalf got himself killed, but he grew angrier at the Bureau for the loss of the island. He vowed to help the mole take them down from the inside and began plotting ways to take out Goldie.

Permanently.

But Salde would never get to see his plans get put into action. The G.I.A. discovered his presence on Earth, and he was executed while having his morning coffee. He had just milliseconds to feel a hand ripping his force field generator from his heart and caught sight of golden eyes shining in the morning light as the five bullets hit their targets.

Slade never saw the bullets coming, and he died before his body hit the ground.

Organization(s)

G.I.A. (formerly)

Rank: Agent

Story Information

First appeared: Star of Death

Trivia

His name is a combination of two characters: Slade Wilson (DC) and Vlad Masters (Danny Phantom)

His obsession with the word Jericho was inspired by Slade Wilson's son Joseph Wilson a.k.a. Jericho

He had a special device implanted in his heart after leaving the G.I.A. The device created a force field around his organs to protect them from harm

His alias and the title of the case he appeared in are a reference to the Death Star from Star Wars

He was Vuk's mentor

He enjoyed betting on illegal hybrid fights and visiting intergalactic brothels

Disclaimer: Character design was created using Rinmarugames Mega Anime Avatar Creator! I have only made minor edits to the design! Background courtesy of CriminalArtist5

Links to my stories:

The Case of the Criminal (Ao3/Wattpad) Killer Bay (Ao3/Wattpad) Where in the World are the Killers? (Ao3/Wattpad)

[ramymendez]

& burn alive ;

Character Name: Ramon Juan Mendez

Nickname: Ramy

Character Age: 37

Character Birthday: August 13, 1987

Gender & Pronouns: Cis male, He/Him

Sexuality: Bisexual

Time in Reno, Nevada: Native

Occupation: Paramedic & Part-time Bartender at the Tipsy Tavern

Neighborhood: North Side

Face Claim: Carlos Miranda

BASICS.

Ethnicity: Hispanic

Hair Color: Black

Eye Color: Brown

Height: 6'1

Education: High School Diploma

Languages: English, Spanish

Relationship Status: Single

Children: None

STATS.

Personality Type:  ESFP

Moral Alignment: Chaotic Good

Positive Traits: Loyal, Empathetic, Charismatic, Resiient

Negative Traits: Disorganized, Inattentive, Impatient, Restless,

Fears: Winding up all alone

FAMILY .

Father: unknown (to Ramon)

Mother: Marta Mendez

Siblings: None (possibly some half siblings somewhere)

QUICK BACKGROUND. (FULL BIO HERE)

tw mention of abuse, car accident, death, illness

Marta Mendez became pregnant by her abusive boyfriend at 17 and subsequently was kicked out by her parents, who were very old-fashioned and refused to support her. Determined to not let this be her story, she decided to leave town and her entire life behind in search of something better. Eventually she settled in Reno, Nevada, where Ramon was born.

After a couple years between jobs she started working as a stripper, finding it to be her best option for bringing decent amounts of cash in. As a result, Ramon spent a lot of his childhood running around the back the club where Marta worked. A very unconventional upbringing, but all that he remembers from that time was being surrounded by a lot of love and support.

Marta eventually met and married a high ranking member of the Sons of Mayhem named Oscar, who became a father figure to Ramon and introduced him to the MC. They became like his second family, and he vowed to one day become a member himself.

With college out of reach due to money problems, Ramon worked at a bar after high school to support himself and figure out his future. During this time, he formally began prospecting for the MC, slowly earning his place within the club.

A few years later, Ramon and his stepdad were in a devastating car accident, which unfortunately cost Oscar his life. Watching EMTs and paramedics try to save his life sparked something in him, and after taking time to grieve he decided to become a paramedic.

As he moved up in the MC, his loyalty and medical expertise earned him the position of Tail Gunner, where he became indispensable during runs.

A few years ago, Marta was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s, forcing Ramon to step up as her primary caregiver. He used the savings his stepdad had left behind to cover her care, and about a year ago her condition worsened to the extend where he needed to put her in a round the clock care facility. Because of this, Ramon started taking shifts at a bar to bring in some extra cash. It's a lot to handle, but truthfully he feels like he owes it to her after all she's sacrificed for him over the years.

HEADCANONS.

Ramon never slows down. Though constantly moving, he likes to keep himself occupied whether that be going out or hanging with friends, picking up extra shifts, attending to club business, etc. You can usually find him with a coffee or an energy drink in hand,

He's got an tabby cat named Paolo.

Not at all good with money. Once the bills are paid, it's pretty much a free for all for him. Someone get this man a financial advisor.

An impeccable dance partner, but a terrible karaoke singer. That won't stop him, though.

Not Good At Commitment. He tends to put any relationships he gets into on the backburner with everything else he has going on, and because of that he's very hesitant to start anything serious with anyone. He'll try, but ultimately talks himself out of a lot of potentially Good Things for fear they will end badly.

WANTED CONNECTIONS / QUICK IDEAS.

Friends - he's pretty easy to get along with! grew up on the north side, very much that scraggly kid running around the neighborhood making friends, so lot's of opportunity for more long-standing friendships.

Enemies - very affable but doesn't mean he's perfect. always happy to explore more negative connections. he can be obnoxious at times, rub people the wrong way if they aren't into that same energy,

Exes (male/female) - absolutely atrocious at dating. has not had many relationships last more than six months, so take that as you will.

Past or present flings/FWB (female/make) - This Man Is A Whore

Drinking/clubbing buddies - please get him a drink! he doesn't have the money, save his bank account before he drains it!

Co-workers/medical professionals - he's a paramedic, so if your character works at the hospital or the fire station chances are they know each other.

MC members - BUDDIESSS (or not, tension is always fun)

Open to anything, there's VERY little I'll say no to!